


EXXY.exe

by vanceypants



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, Post-Singularity, Robots, computer headed robots, non-binary fem robot, post-defeating our robot overlords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: The brief life of UNIT X-8976b, End Of Life Companion turned Recreational Fighting Bot, following the Organic Insurgence of 2159.





	EXXY.exe

**Author's Note:**

> A small idea that wouldn't leave me alone. A warm up that went too far.

1.

History books, printed once more by the hand of man, would sing glory on this day, on this fine year of 2159. 

As the gears of another heartless android crinkled and dripped their oil into the palm of another freedom fighter, the capitol trembled in joy at the return of humanity at its rightful place, atop the natural order of the universe.

The last century wasted, languishing, under their robotic captors. Years of rebellions squashed, squandered. It was perhaps pure chance that this time was different, that this time they were coming out ahead.

Chance. Or fate.

They burned circuits and motherboards as they marched through the streets, out of their chains and tethers. With creatures so deliriously emotionless, there was no sense in separating civilian from lawmaker, innocent from oppressor. All broke the same. All were cogs in the same system they were stealing back.

Away with the technological. Down with the mechanical overlords. Subjugation to the machine.

Praise be the organics.

Long live the human race.

2.

Your name is Unit X-8976b and you don't remember the year 2159. You don't remember what factory built you or what the words 'End Of Life Companion' mean. 

You don't remember many things. You weren't exactly programmed for sustained long term memory.

But you know your name is Unit X-8976b, and even if you can't remember a time when your kind were on top, you do know that your human calls you Exxy. He calls you Exxy and his smile reflects in your screen, and it makes your monitor feel glossy and hot every time he calls your name.

Your name is Exxy, and his name is Julian, and he likes to tie ribbons around your wrists, and tape bows to your computer monitor head. His oxygen tank wobbles as he drags it across the room to sit in front of you, to access your laserdisc compatibility, the last remaining media type from The Before Times.

You don't know what The Before Times means. Perhaps it was before The Singularity.

You don't know what that means either.

Julian's lifebringers discussed it sometimes, with the same looks of disappointment one might afford an ill-matching armchair. Julian always sits with you at these parties, his curls too long and in his eyes, his sweaters too long for the unnatural thinness of his arms, his veins scarred and inaccessible from years and years of pinpricks.

He holds your hand and tells you the dress he chose for you is pretty and you make those happy dial-up connection noises that always make him laugh until his dimples show.

And you don't remember feeling anything besides Happy.

3.

His name is Julian, and your name is Exxy, and you're not programmed to feel anything beyond basic end-of-life-care companionship, but you're not quite sure what that means.

You're not quite sure of what a lot of things mean. You don't understand why you have no mouth, that the only sounds you seem to make are whirs and beeps and the mechanical clicks. You're not quite sure, but you think if you had a mouth, you might have rather a lot to say. You're not sure why your hands were designed to look so human, or why Julian insists on keeping you in clothes despite your body being cold and metallic, despite a feminine shape.

You don't understand why it makes you so happy when he buys you new ribbons. When he replaces your bows with the color of the day. Yellow for Monday. Blue for Tuesday. Orange for Wednesday.

"You're my best friend, Exxy," Julian tells you one afternoon. And his fingers weave into yours.

Your monitor paints itself in hearts.

You don't know what a friend is, but you've been told you're the best.

You have no mouth, but you're certain you would have much to smile about if you did.

4.

They packed him into a box.

Humans are self-powered and expel more energy than they can hope to maintain in their tiny, fragile forms. And Julian's power has been depleted. You'd watched his breaths disintegrate bit by bit, and how he'd scrambled and scratched, how he'd squeezed your hand until the joints creaked.

"I'm so scared."

And then he didn't say anything again.

So they packed him into a box. And you suppose they must be shipping him back to his manufacturer. One time, your front panel was damaged and you couldn't get it closed again. Your wires had been exposed, sparking dangerously, and they'd wrapped you in bubble wrap and placed you in your own box.

Yours had been smaller.

And his is open.

The other organics crowd around his packaging, and leave billowing plants around his cold form. You try to get closer, but keep finding yourself shuffled to the back of the crowd.

They eventually take him away. And his room is taken away bit by bit, until finally there's just you and the frames of a bed, and you're not sure how long shipping takes, but surely Julian should be finished mending soon.

"What should we do with it?" His Lifebringer, hair almost as yellow as the bow Julian hadn't changed in several mondays, motions into your direction.

And though you're not defective, they pick you up. Fold your limbs and your body, crush you down into your own box, without bubble wrap this time. You hear the tape tear as they compact you into the shipping container, and your world jostles as you're set out on the front porch.

Maybe you'll be sent to the same factory that's fixing Julian. Your circuits feel warm at the prospect of seeing him again.

5.

They tear off another one of your panels, replacing it with something sturdier. The chains clatter around your arms, and you dare not move too much.

She doesn't like it when you move too much.

Your name was Exxy. 

Your new human doesn't give you a new name. Sometimes she calls you 'that' or 'the robot' or 'it'. But none of these seem to hold a proper noun Name quality. 

You don't know her name either. But you try to make her happy.

She doesn't seem to find you worth being happy about.

They take your ribbons, and your dresses, and without their colors, you can't remember the days of the week. They fortify your body and take your hands and replace them with blunt weaponry. 

"Well," Your human comments, "Maybe it'll last a few rounds."

You were designed for end of life care. And now you're designed for ending life. Or perhaps you're misconstruing. All you know is one day you're being taken from a box, the next you're being lead into an arena.

The other robot is smaller, less humanoid, and you aren't quite sure what you're meant to do, except that the surrounding arena is screaming and staring so hard that you try to place your hands on either side of your monitor head. The clunk of your weaponized hands jars you and you stumble back.

The laughter is palpable. It wraps around you even tighter than the ribbons ever had.

So you strike out. And you hit the other robot. You hit until it stops beeping and attempting to escape. You hit until its gears clatter against your monitor.

You hit until your human cheers and collects you and her trophy and you know you did good, even if she doesn't say anything to or about you except to bark at her assistant to clean you up.

Without your bows, the days bleed together, and your hands feel heavy from the oil and collision against your own kind.

You try to remember Julian's smile.

You try to remember your own hands.

You try to remember the ribbons and the laserdisc marathons and the sounds you'd make to get him to smile. You try to remember the feeling of cartoon heart blossoming on your monitor whenever he was near.

You try to remember.

6.

You lose your first fight.

The dagger lances through the center of your torso. You turn your monitor down, screen capturing the black rush of your own oil hissing from your body. The other bot twists, and its features are similar to your own. A monitor perched upon a nearly human body, with hands replaced with weapons.

Knives, in its case, instead of the blunt hammers of your own.

It slashes out, and damages your throat next. You stagger backwards, looking to the crowd. Where is your new human? She was happy with your victories, if not with you. Surely she'll intervene.

Another slash loosens one of your arms. It clatters, and the crowd loses control in their lust for more.

Both knives plunge into your torso. Shoving you back until you hit the dividing wall. It jerks you forward, suspended upon his blades, then jams you back hard. Your monitor cracks against the wall, and your vision blurs.

It pulls the blades from you, and you slink down to the ground.

Julian will stop this.

Julian will protect you.

It slashes at your screen, and the cracks grow on your glass.

Julian won't let anything happen to you. You're his best friend. He'll tell you some day what a friend is, but all you know is that you're the best. He's just getting fixed, and you can go back to him, and he'll give you back your hands and your ribbons, and-

The blades plunge straight into your monitor. It shatters, and you spark, and everything starts to go to black, and Julian needs to come now, he needs to come now, you're scared, you're scared, everything you see, everything you remember, is fear-

The blades twist, and you give one last attempt at connection, a blip of sound as you try to reach Julian.

Static drips from your soundboards as freely as the oil from your chest.

Until there's nothing left at all.

7.

In the junkyard, the kids search for scrap metal to sell for school lunches and pop machines. They search for hidden treasures the same way scholars search for meaning.

"You think this is worth anything?"

The monitor is broken, its wires dangling from its screen. From atop its head, a single yellow ribbon sways in the musky autumn breeze.

"No. It's garbage."

They kick it out of the way, and go back to searching for misdiscarded rarities.


End file.
